Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(27)
I turned the water on full blast and added the disposal to further muffle her words. I knew my way around men, it was true. But that hadn’t always been the case.
Not in the least.
Chapter 9
Sundays in Bailey Falls are the thing that small-town dreams are made of, especially in the fall. I snuggled into a gray cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and my Chanel black leather thigh-high boots and practically danced down the front steps of Roxie’s farmhouse that morning, bound for another breakfast meeting with Chad Bowman.
Doesn’t everyone wear thigh-high boots to a pancake breakfast?
Roxie was sleeping in. The diner was closed on Sundays, her food truck was closed as well, and she usually spent the afternoon over at Leo’s.
Which meant I had the day, and her old Wagoneer, to myself. I prided myself on being a city girl who could actually drive, something that not all native Manhattanites can do. Between the subway, cabs, and town cars, there was no need to drive oneself, so many city girls never learned.
I learned to drive in this very car, Roxie’s old Jeep Grand Wagoneer, in California, so I was quite at home behind the wheel of the giant old boat.
As I drove into town, I took the time to enjoy being alone. In the wild. Crimson trees danced overhead, their leaves begging off and rioting to the earth below. The air was crisp, clean, and even though there was a constant tickle in the back of my throat (the smog perhaps finally giving up and making way for the clean?), it tasted glorious. I felt so good it almost made me forget how I’d tossed and turned the night before.
Equal parts woodland symphony followed by crushing spooky silence, accented with a side of reliving that incredible kiss over and over again, meant I’d been unable to sleep until way past two in the morning. I’d sleep well tonight back in the city, where I belonged.
But I had to admit that despite the inherent sleeping problems, there definitely was something about this little town. As I drove through the downtown area, all six blocks, I watched as families and kids made their way in their Sunday best to the three churches on their busy street corners. Everyone was laughing, everyone was smiling, as if there were some kind of Mayberry addiction. I had to admit, I’d like a taste. People waved at each other—they actually waved! Calling out greetings, shaking hands, and patting each other on the back—there was such an air of conviviality, a friendliness that seemed woven into the very fabric of Bailey Falls.
I parked the car diagonally along Main Street, only a block away from the town square and the coffee shop where I was meeting Chad. As I walked, I pondered.
Were all small towns like this? If I lived here, would I become as friendly? Would I smile and nod and greet everyone cheerfully? Would a stranger patting me on the back become commonplace, or would I have to stifle the urge to mace, knee, and run?
As the coffee and pastry shop’s overhead bell jingled, I sighed and breathed in deeply. A Whole Latte Love was a gorgeous brick building situated on a corner of Main Street, occupying a great slice of real estate. It boasted magnificently high ceilings capped off with bronze tin tiles. The walls were peppered with seventies music posters that were framed and lit like the best art in the museum.
Now this place was what I’d pictured the Hudson Valley to be. It was hipster chic down to the mosaic flooring.
It even had its own hipster barista working the massive chrome machine like he had eight arms. I spied Chad in the back, tapping away on his laptop and sipping on a large coffee, with two tiny scones ready for nibbling.
“What’s good?” I asked, pulling out the antique chair. Nothing in the place matched. Everything was deliciously eclectic and just the right amount of odd.
“It’s all good. You can’t order anything bad here. They were just featured in some café magazine for best East Coast spots. Homemade scones and muffins, and Sumatran, Italian, and French coffee blends that wake you up just by smelling it from the street. I’m not kidding, go easy on the coffee here. It’ll knock you on your very stylish ass.”
“I think I can take it,” I said, grinning, and he raised his eyebrows with a “you’ve been warned” expression.
The stunning young waitress came over. “What can I get you?” she asked, flicking her tongue ring against her teeth.
“I’ll take whatever a person orders when they need a swift kick in the ass to wake up. Plus a few of those chocolate biscotti I saw in the jar.”
Nodding, she scribbled it down and took off.
Chad Bowman shook his head and muttered, “You’ll see.”
She brought the coffee over in a dainty teacup. “This is how you serve this hard-core coffee?” I tittered, waving a hand at Chad.
It was the most out-of-place thing in the shop. Here I was among the requisite musical memorabilia and antique chairs, not to mention a cozy stage for slam poetry night—this place was right out of a CW teen drama—and I was being served in fine china.
But when she set it down, it wasn’t the beautiful rose pattern or the gold rim that made me laugh. It was the pitch-black tar goop that filled the cup.
Oh boy.
Never one to shirk a challenge, I thanked her and took the cup in a shaky hand. Eyeing it, I could already feel the jitters running through me, and I hadn’t even taken a sip.
“Go on, it’s not going to drink itself,” he teased.
The sludge in the cup didn’t even move.